


Tempest

by victorianvampire



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: 1890s, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, London, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29757459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorianvampire/pseuds/victorianvampire
Summary: 1896, London. Ava is forced to enlist the help of a private detective to solve a case, but her obligation turns into a sweet burden as time goes on.
Relationships: Detective/Ava du Mortain, Female Detective/Ava du Mortain
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

Ava watches the grey sky as it persistently batters the window with rain, the small streaks on the glass pane casting lines on her handsome face that could be mistaken for tears by someone who doesn’t know her. Anyone who _does_ know her knows that she’d sooner shed her blood than her tears. That is just the way she is. The way she likes to be thought of. The only way she is truly safe.

The heavens have let loose, and god is baring his teeth. And Ava just stands there, hands shoved in the pockets of her trousers, gazing out into the busy street as still and cold as the marble statues dotting the hallway. But only on the outside. Because inside of her, there is a storm to match the tempest that assails the city.

She is agitated the moment an image of her slips into her mind, and she begins chewing on the inside of her cheek when she realises that every minute the private detective isn’t in her sight, she is losing her mind. The nervous gesture is soon quelled by hundreds of years of self-discipline, and is replaced by her signature frown, lips pressed into a thin line, the muscles running along her jawbone tensing under her opaque skin. She is… mortal, she wants to think. Fragile. Unimportant. A job.

But she is also _everything_.

Which is why she must sever her ties to the woman before the job is over, otherwise the eternity to come will turn into hell on earth without her. Ava deserves hell, she knows that. Not that she believes in the devil, but the sharpness of his pitchfork and the heat of hellfire are sensations not unfamiliar to her. Eternal damnation is just guilt and anger and fear hiding in Satan’s clothing. But she can’t even begin to assign words to the kind of torture a world without her would mean. Ava’s ever so logical mind paralyses in terror at the thought of existing in a time when she isn’t.

She inhales sharply - even brushing the surface of the topic causes so much pain to course through her whole being that she needs to focus on something else - _anything else_ \- to continue functioning. So she listens to Nate’s soothing voice as he discusses myths with the professor down the hall. She registers the footsteps of people mulling about the museum on the floor below, the idle chatter of ladies clad in expensive dresses, the booming voices of three men arguing over the origin of a painting in the first hall. She turns her piercing attention on the street now, listening to the sounds of horses and vendors and street urchins, feeling thankful to the steady rain for considerably dulling the sharp tang of the muddy streets in her nostrils. She pulls out her pocket watch then, the ticking matching her now once more steady heartbeat.

The detective isn’t late yet, though she has a feeling that she will be, with the rain clogging the streets with carriages and hansoms as it usually does, especially at such a lively hour in the late morning. Ava wonders what she will wear, how her hair will be styled. She wants the rain to kiss her face, she wants the wind to rake its fingers through her tightly pinned up hair and loosen some strands from their captivity. She wants the warmth of the museum building to engulf her once she steps inside, bringing a rush of blood to her cold cheeks. She wants all this and more, for her own body must stay still for everyone’s sake, thus leaving her to live through the rain, and the wind, and the warmth of the radiators, her own fingers and lips and skin left yearning for a sensation she must deny herself.

Her daydreaming is cut short when two men pass her by, throwing her wide-eyed stares as they clutch their books to their chests and mutter quiet greetings to her. Students of the professor, no doubt, and shocked to their very core by the sight of a woman in trousers easily towering above them. It fills Ava with a savage sort of satisfaction before her insecurities - awakened by the private detective’s appearance in her life - creep up on her. It has never been particularly acceptable for a woman to wear men’s clothing throughout history, and 1896 is no exception. Then again, Ava has never been particularly bothered by this expectation, so it has all been well. Until now, when she begins to wonder if the detective likes this. She has commended her on her bravery before, and agreed with her choice of clothing because of its practicality, but that is hardly an admission of approval or attraction. And besides, she seems to favour dresses herself, even if she is nowhere nearly as extravagant or tightly laced as the dames of the decade. Admittedly, the detective’s pulse always picks up when they speak, especially alone, and her pupils are blown when she catches her staring but…

“I’ve got what we came for… and more,” Nate speaks with quiet excitement as he stalks up to her by the window, and Ava forces herself to look at her friend, hands balling into fists in her pockets. She had been so absorbed in thoughts of the private detective that she almost didn’t notice Nate at all until he reached her.

Pathetic. She needs to focus.

There’s a supernatural on the loose, murdering in the streets of London, and she is thinking about whether or not a mortal woman likes her choice of clothing. She takes the folder Nate hands her, and pries it open to reveal several new pages filled with his neat handwriting. At least their initial hunch has been correct - they’re definitely something corporeal that can pass off as a human, and now thanks to Nate’s research, they’re all but confirmed to have come from Scandinavia originally. And yet it doesn’t help her ease her mind that she knows what they could possibly be - after all, they’re out for the detective by the Agency’s estimate.

“Could it be a dark elf?” she mutters, blonde brows furrowed as she skims through the pages.

“Dökkálfar. My thought exactly,” her friend nods, pleased that Ava has come to the same conclusion.

“Haven’t seen one of those in… well, in a very long time.”

Nate’s shoulders sag a little as his initial enthusiasm ebbs. “I suppose we are about to face one again.”

She wants to reprimand Nate for forgetting the real objective of their mission - it’s protection, after all, not hunting down a rogue. But she thinks of the detective again, a woman so unique and individualistic in a world that tries so hard to oppress her along with her ambitions, and she knows she won’t be able to rest until the threat to her life is no more. It’s her duty, she reasons meekly against the swell of affection filling her chest and pushing against her skin, threatening to crack the solid marble of her stoic facade. But she knows a lie when she hears one. She suddenly thinks of last year, Paris, the Louvre. Nike of Samothrace. The statue of the Winged Victory. Headless, and yet still the symbol of triumph. She has lost her common sense ever since she started working with the detective, but she knows she must win as well, because if she fails… Well, she dare not even think about the consequences it would have on her.

And above all, she must remain as cold to the touch as that carefully carved block of marble.

“I wish we could tell her,” her friend presses on gently, concern and guilt marring the edges of the soft curve of his long lips.

“It’s better this way. Safer,” she croaks, hating the way her voice softens and breaks mid-sentence.

“Safer for whom, I wonder?” Nate sighs, taking the folder Ava hands him and closes it with delicate fingers before leaning against the wall next to her. She hasn’t even realised she sought to support of the wooden panelled hallway until Nate mimicked her movement absent-mindedly.

“What do you mean?”

“Safer for her…” he sighs before glancing at Ava with sad eyes, “or safer for us?”

She averts her eyes, her long ignored self-loathing clawing its way up from the deepest pits of her mind before she clenches her jaw. “For all parties involved.”

_But mostly for me_ , she admits to herself inwardly. The lie obscures her true nature, and she revels in it for once. She doesn’t know what she’d do if the detective flinched away from her in fear instead of being drawn to her like a moth to a flame in the middle of a heavy summer night. For the past 800 years, she thought of herself as nothing but an agent, an element operating in the shadows, making the world a less dangerous place. She hunted her emotions and burned them at the stake, but this witch hunt can only go on for so long without consequences. She always thought of herself as a vampire first and foremost, her base nature being a bloodthirsty monster, but she was human before that. And she’s never felt more human than now. Probably not even when she actually was one.

And that is a terrifying thought to live with, especially when its source is so easily pinpointed. _Her_. It’s all on _her_.

“So we lie once more?” Nate sighs, breaking the silence and drawing her attention outwards once more.

“Yes,” she states firmly, the word feeling strangely sour in her mouth. “We tell her this was a dead end. She doesn’t need to know anything else. The Agency, on the other hand, needs to be brought up to speed. Will you do it?”

“I’ll brief them,” Nate nods, pushing himself away from the wall before straightening down his coat. “I suppose that leaves you with watching her?”

“Yes,” Ava speaks through gritted teeth, ignoring the heat crawling up her neck at the thought of being alone with the woman. Her reaction to the detective is unbearable, and yet she brings it upon herself like a masochist inviting the pain. She doesn’t understand why she does it, and yet she has no will to stop.

A nod, retreating footsteps, and Nate is no longer to be seen or heard, not even by her eyes and ears. She slips out her watch from her pocket once more and flips the silver lid open - she is late. Her heartbeat turns into a wild galloping crescendo when she hears a familiar voice on the street though, her heart’s rhythm no longer matching the steady ticking of the pocket watch as it did before.

Ava stares as she exits the hansom with a graceful ease that should be categorised as a criminal offence, wet pieces of stray hairs sticking to her delightful face as she rushes across the street with a purpose that almost leaves her breathless.

_She wants to catch the killer_ , she tells herself. _That’s all she wants and nothing more._

Yet as she moves swiftly towards the staircase, unable to wait for her in one place, and wanting, no, _needing_ to see her as soon as possible, deep down Ava hopes the detective is just as eager to be with her as she is.

And then at the very last moment, right before they’re about to come face to face, she schools her features into a blank expression, a great lie of a tabula rasa, her face hardening like sculpted marble - commanding, ancient, beautiful, but so, so _cold_.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Today, somewhere in the woods near Wayhaven_ **

The gate creaks as she pushes it open, the rusty metal almost bending in her formidable grip. She is tense, shoulders taut, her muscles rebelling against the control of her mind.

_Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate_. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

Dante was lucky - Beatrice awaited him in heaven after he went through hell to get to her. But Ava is not so fortunate. Oh no, her hell is only just quite beginning. Down she goes to the deepest pit, the last circle, without a guide, and there will be no salvation in the end. The frozen wasteland reserved for the most treacherous await her with open arms, ready to swallow her whole. Her guilt burning in her veins will not save her now. It will not keep her warm.

It’s early March in Wayhaven. The snow begins to gently ascend on the old abandoned cemetery in a slow flurry, and the stars studding the night sky have suddenly doubled. Ava raises her gaze, eyes already shining with the promise of tears as the starlight reflects in them under the gentle frame of her eyelashes.

She doesn’t want to do this. She can’t do this. But she will. For her sake.

Ava has abandoned her one too many times already, irreversibly. What is a promise kept to the dead? What is a kiss to a gravestone? She has no idea. She doesn’t think it means anything. But she cannot say no to her again. Even if she is not really here anymore.

The Wayhaven assignment, protecting Rebecca’s child, a detective no less… It has brought up so many memories she tried to bury deep inside of her. A hundred years haven’t been enough to forget even a single detail about her, and she doubts a hundred more will do anything to corrode the image of her she guards in her heart. But why did it have to be this way? She has meant to come here for decades now, but she was always terrified of what the certainty of her death reaching her with its icy fingers would do to her. Now she has no choice but to face her. Murphy is captured, the detective is recovering and assigned the title of liaison, and Unit Bravo is to be stationed here in Wayhaven for an unspecified period of time.

It’s cruel. She could read it on Nate’s face too. Knowing she is buried here, a friend to him, an old ally to them both, and something so much more to her, well, it’s enough to keep them both slipping in and out of memories. Her old friend is one step ahead of her though, as always - he’s quietly let her know the other night that he’s been here, that he’s left flowers, that he had to, he just had to, that he’s sorry. Ava sincerely hopes that the quiet and yet all the more painful, persistent reminder of her death that permeates this small town has been somewhat soothed over by this gesture in Nate, even if she knows she can hope for no such peace.

The thin sheen of stark white snow crunches underneath her boots as she walks down the path slowly after a steadying breath, her silhouette melting into the all encompassing darkness. This place is ancient compared to the new cemetery’s modern plots - she’s seen them as they’ve passed them by on multiple occasions. No, this cemetery is small, and hidden deep in the woods surrounding the little town, flanked by pine trees so tall it was hard to find it in the first place. It’s a historical attraction now, with its beautifully sculpted headstones and statues, its residents being the best and brightest of the 19th century, ground to dust and bones after the next generations have inherited the world. _This is what time does to the best and brightest, to the ones that live, to humans_ , Ava thinks grimly, hiding behind her logic a moment longer before it will all be ripped from her hands once more. The private detective always had that effect on her, and she doubts her abilities have languished in death.

She was too good for that. Too good for the fate that befell her. Too good for her.

Thinking about the private detective sets off a reflex in her that she cannot stop immediately. She focuses her senses on instinct, her gaze cutting through darkness with ease, her nostrils filling with the rich scent of the woods even through the steadily growing blanket of snow, her ears straining to pick up her sensitive heartbeat.

But it’s only the evergreen branches gently swaying under the weight of the snow, and the howling of the wind, and the gentle rustling of nocturnal animals. and the smell of earth. These headstones, once people, are no more alive than the cold snow underneath her boots.

Ava dares a few more steps down the path, statues of angels and crosses standing silent vigil in honour of her pilgrimage, and she considers backing out and closing her heart completely and fully to the past when she sees plain pale blue flowers on a grave - the only colour in the monochrome of this grim scene. She is paralysed, her throat tightening, her feet so heavy that she feels stuck in place for a good while.

This is the path Nate took, and that single bouquet of flowers marks the destination of his visit.

Most of the people buried here have been dead for so long that no living have ever met or remembered them anymore. No flowers, no candles, no tears shed for them, no laments offered. Just mother nature smoothing over their granite foreheads with rain fingers, and sun kisses and snow breaths. And the pain of _her_ being one of those forgotten faces tears through Ava with such a force that she is spurred into motion, wading through the snow until she’s right before the plot her detective has been confined to for the rest of eternity. _Such a tiny space_ , she thinks as her chest constricts at the sight of the modest little grave. The white of the snow is threatening to swallow the inscription of her name, and Ava sinks to her knees, not caring one bit about the wetness of the ground seeping into her trousers, as she reaches out with the reverent fingers of a lover and brushes the snowflakes aside until she can see it all clearly, fingertips ghosting over the forbidden curve of each letter in her name that alone mean nothing, but put together… Put together, they mean her whole world.

Her world, now as cold as Ava had been towards her many times in the past, reduced from endless possibilities to a mere coffin’s size. How she wishes she could crawl in next to her and apologise to each bone before closing her eyes and never leaving her side again.

She used to do that when they fought. Of course, the private detective was very much alive then, and apologies were much easier to convey. She used to creep into their bedroom at night where she’d cry alone and pretend to sleep instead of admitting defeat. Ava used to swallow her pride and kick off her shoes and crawl into bed with her. She used to hold her close, the warmth of her back seeping into her chest as she’d mutter apologies into her hair. And the detective could never stay mad for long. She would turn in her grasp and cry until Ava kissed away all her tears.

The snowflakes burn the flushed skin of her cheeks as she kneels there, one icy palm flat against the inscription on the stone, the only movement for a long while being the stars dancing in the salty streams sliding down her cheeks.

This one last apology can never be delivered properly, she knows that. But she had to go. She had to leave London. Her work at the Agency always came first. The detective knew that, even if she didn’t know everything about her. What would have happened if she had stayed, she does not know. Information was vague back then, and hard to come by. She does not know how she died; so young still, only two years after Ava left for good. Maybe she could have saved her one way or the other. Maybe. But even if she survived the dangers of her work, and the dangers that threaten all mortal beings, even then she would be gone by now.

She was a being that should have been preserved. If Ava hadn’t been such a coward, she would still be here, and her brilliance would shine fiercely like the North Star, leading her on, adding a purpose to her existence.

Yet stars die eventually. Even if their light keeps on shining for thousands of years afterwards.

Hours pass. Ava melts into the long row of statues, her pale skin the colour of white marble, her features that of an angel’s. If anyone were to visit now at this late hour, perhaps they wouldn’t even notice her.

But there is someone out there, silent as the grave, halting to a stop only by the tree line - not risking exposure, but also unable to resist staying away. There is someone out there lurking in the shadows who could single Ava out of a thousand faces if she had to. She lingers, not ready to reveal herself, her shock turning her inside out as she watches what transpires by her grave.

And while Ava is busy mourning, she is busy welcoming back a lover she thought dead.


End file.
